


Dry County

by Mechanical_Orange



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 13:07:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3121289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mechanical_Orange/pseuds/Mechanical_Orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Effie tries to adjust to life in Thirteen and Haymitch tries to adjust to life without alcohol. It makes for some interesting conversation. I like you better sober, indeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dry County

**Author's Note:**

> A fic that follows the film canon in which Effie is in Thirteen and Haymitch is trying to deal.

 

_I like you better sober._

 

She is smiling when she says it.  Flirting.  Haymitch isn’t drunk enough for flirting.

 

But then, he guesses, that _is_ her point.

 

Sober, like he hasn't been in many, many years – his head aches, his hands shake, the lights are too bright and voices too loud.  He finally gets to leave his room (cell) and he's greeted with a half-hearted Mockingjay propped up by a team of imbeciles.  And the imbeciles don't take too kindly to Haymitch's (very helpful) critique.  Coin is disdainful, Plutarch offended, Katniss resentful, but Effie - Effie is delighted.

 

Haymitch desperately needs a drink.

 

What he gets instead is a brainstorming session that does nothing for his constantly throbbing skull.  Haymitch could barely stand Effie's enthusiasm when he was drinking, but sobriety makes him say strange things, and for once he's actually glad for her earnest participation.  

 

"You know, I like you better, Effie, without all that makeup."  The words are out before he realizes exactly what he's saying.  He's pretty sure he meant it as an insult, but the words get all twisted in his mouth (which is far too dry) and it comes out as a compliment.

 

"Well, I like you better sober."

 

Those words rattle around in his head throughout the rest of the meeting.

 

 _Like_. He isn’t sure they’ve ever actually _liked_ each other. Tolerated each other. Teased one another. Worked together. But like? He couldn’t recall.

 

Granted, the tape of his memory is full of static and blank spaces, haphazardly spliced together through a haze of alcohol and bitter, ugly regret. Maybe he does like her, but only when he’s too drunk to remember. And maybe she likes him too, when he’s drunk enough to forget.

 

He can’t decide if that makes him want to keep drinking or stay sober. It doesn’t matter anyway; District Thirteen doesn’t give him a choice.

 

He’s not a liar, though. Not today. He did mean that he liked Effie better without that makeup, without the bizarre wigs and dresses and the way she looked as though she was some kind of terrifying cross between a circus clown and a supermodel. Now she looks… she looks like that one time he saw her without all that makeup. Years ago. He had stumbled into the wrong cabin on the train, and there she was – hair wrapped in a scarf, face scrubbed and pale – or no, maybe not, maybe he’s misremembering. Maybe that was a dream he had, maybe he just wishes this isn’t the first time he’s seen her looking so human, like it’s her first time seeing him so sober. Maybe he just wants the upper hand in this conversation.

 

He’s not going to get it.

 

The meeting ends and he ambles down a gray corridor; the schedule on his wrist tells him it’s lunchtime, but he can’t eat anything right now. He hears footsteps behind him and the gait is familiar, but off somehow. It’s Effie. She’s not wearing her heels.

 

“Haymitch,” she says.

 

“Nice job back there, sweetheart,” he replies, leaning against the cold metal wall behind him.

 

“Haymitch, I wanted to talk to you earlier, but they said you weren’t taking any visitors, and in any case I couldn’t go out of my quarters – oh you should see it, Haymitch, it’s hardly as big as my closet, and so drab –”

 

“What do you mean you couldn’t leave your quarters?” he asks. “They wouldn’t let you out?”

 

“What? Oh, no, of course not! It’s just that I couldn’t go out like… like this.”

 

Haymitch rubs his eyes. His headache is only getting worse. “What are you talking about, Effie?”

 

“My clothes,” she says. “And my hair. I look ridiculous.”

 

“Sweetheart, you usually look ridiculous.”

 

She shoots him an indignant glance.

 

The corner of his mouth lifts into a slight smirk. “I like your scarf, by the way. Better than those wigs you used to wear.”

 

“It _was_ the style when I was coming up. I suppose everything old is new again.”

 

“Trust me, sweetheart, some old things just get older.”

 

He strolls away before Effie can say anything else. That might’ve been the most civil conversation he’s ever had with her, and he isn’t quite sure he likes it. It’s because he feels guilty, probably. Guilty for bringing her here without her consent, for taking her somewhere that is so opposite of everything that she’s ever known and expecting her to deal with it. Plutarch has told him that some residents of District Thirteen haven’t taken too well to Effie’s interesting ideas on the uniforms.

 

He thinks it’s best to let Effie have her fun – bad enough he dragged her here against her will – he knows it must’ve been hard for her, especially if she only had Plutarch for company while he was… incapacitated.

 

Haymitch doesn’t see Effie very often; he’s usually in Command, and when she’s not needed Effie keeps to her quarters. People don’t particularly like her – with the exception of the rescued tributes and, strangely, Prim. More than once he’s heard residents of Thirteen and Twelve mumbling about the stupid woman from the Capitol and her silly clothes.

 

He ambles toward the mess hall after a particularly tedious meeting with Coin and Plutarch, looking forward to bland rations and a glass of tepid water. His head doesn’t ache as much as it used to, but after a day like today a bottle of Ripper’s finest wouldn’t go amiss.

 

“Well, I never!”

 

Haymitch spots Effie as soon as he enters, as if her strange accent and scandalized tone isn’t a dead giveaway. She’s standing by a table, arms folded and mouth set in an admonishing frown. Haymitch recognizes this Effie. This Effie appears when someone’s made a disparaging remark about her tributes, her district, or her mentor. The last thing Haymitch needs right now is for Effie to make a scene – the people of Thirteen don’t need another reason to hate her.

 

Effie takes notice of him as he approaches, and when she looks at him all indignation melts away and is replaced by a delighted smile. Effie’s the only one who looks at him like that – and even so, it’s a rare occasion indeed. The smile catches him off guard, and he has to stop himself from reaching for a bottle that isn’t there. He’s never had to deal with that smile while sober.

 

“Haymitch!” Effie cries. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

 

“That makes one of us,” he mumbles.

 

“I was just asking Gale if he knew where Katniss had gone,” she says, gesturing to a surly-looking Gale at the table.

 

“And I told you,” Gale says, “I wouldn’t tell you even if I did know. Why are you looking for her anyway? Haven’t you Capitol bastards done enough?”

 

“You are a very rude young man,” Effie responds primly, walking away. Haymitch can tell how upset she is by the way her lips are drawn tight, her eyes focused straight ahead, and her chin raised just a little too high to blame on good posture.

 

“Effie,” Haymitch calls. “Wait a minute.” But she doesn’t stop.

 

“Why are you so nice to her?” Gale asks.

 

Haymitch stares at him. He doesn’t think anyone has _ever_ accused him of being nice to Effie Trinket. And for the first time Haymitch can see what exactly he’d been trying to drown out all these years with liquor. He can see the same resentment, anger, and fear in Gale’s face that used to be in his own – he can see it with such clarity that it’s almost like looking in a mirror from twenty years ago. He knows exactly what Gale’s feeling, that it’s the quickest way to get everyone you love killed, and that Gale would never believe him if he tried to explain it.

 

“Call me old-fashioned,” Haymitch replies, “but I tend to be nice to the woman who has cleaned up my own vomit. On more than one occasion.”

 

Gale looks disgusted. Good. Haymitch walks away secure in the fact that people’s opinion of him can’t get much lower, but hoping that maybe Effie’s can get a little higher.

 

He finds her in her quarters.

 

“Effie,” he says, knocking (banging) on the door. “Can you let me in?”

 

The door slides open and he walks in to find her sitting at her tiny desk, fiddling with some bright pink fabric.

 

“Hello, Haymitch,” she says. “How can I help you?”

 

He sighs. “Look, what happened back there, with Gale…”

 

“It has nothing to do with you, Haymitch,” she replies. “Some people are just rude.”

 

He runs his hand down his face (his hands don’t shake as much as they used to), and wonders why Effie has to make everything so difficult.

 

“Sweetheart, not everyone around here is as hung up on manners as you are.”

 

“I am well aware of that.”

 

“Yeah, well maybe if you loosened up a little you wouldn’t find everyone to be so rude,” he says. “And maybe they wouldn’t find you so insufferable.”

 

Effie remains focused on the cloth in her hand, but Haymitch can see the way her shoulders tense, and he can imagine the way her lips press together, as if she’s fighting the urge to frown.

“Do you find me insufferable, Haymitch?” she asks quietly.

 

He hesitates for a moment. His first instinct is to say yes, but that’s not entirely true. There are plenty of people he finds more insufferable than Effie. Plutarch for one. Coin for another.

 

“Effie, come on, that’s not what I meant,” he says, but it’s a moment too late.

 

Effie stands and hands him a sheaf of papers. “Will you give this to Katniss when you see her? It’s just some of Cinna’s old work. I thought she might like them.” She opens the door and waits expectantly by the threshold. Haymitch knows when he’s being dismissed, and he knows this is about as impolite as Effie gets. He doesn’t like being on the receiving end of it, doubly so without a bottle of liquor in hand.

 

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” he says, taking his leave.

 

Katniss likes to hide in weird places throughout Thirteen. Haymitch has no idea how she finds them, but he knows it’s a pain in the ass to track her down and coax her out. And frankly, he thinks they should just let her be. He remembers feeling like that, like your mind is slowly falling apart, and there’s a deep black hole in your chest and the world is collapsing all around you. But lucky for him, Haymitch thinks, no one is demanding they use his shoulders to prop it up.

 

He doesn’t even try to look for Katniss; she’s still not speaking to him anyway, and instead hands the papers off to Prim when he sees her in the hospital (he has to go every day just to make sure he hasn’t dropped dead of withdrawal yet, he guesses).

 

“Thanks, Haymitch,” she says, ever so polite. It’s no surprise Effie adores her. “I know she’ll like these.”

 

Haymitch just shrugs; he doesn’t like thinking about Cinna, someone he considers to be the first casualty of Plutarch’s rebellion.

 

“Did Effie give you these?” Prim asks.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Tell her I said thank you.”

 

“Sure,” he replies. The sterile smell of the hospital just makes the ache in his head worse. Something about the antiseptic odor reminds him of his worst days, the grain alcohol that made him temporarily blind once or twice. Those are the days he never tells anyone about – the days when he wakes up alone in his own vomit hoping he’s dead. His hands are starting to tremble and his mouth feels full of cotton. All he wants to do is leave, but Prim, sweet, darling little Prim can’t know that. So she keeps talking.  

 

“I heard about what Gale said,” Prim tells him. “To Effie.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Haymitch replies.

 

“I tried to talk to him about it,” she says. “I told him that Katniss has always said really nice things about Effie and that she’s just doing her job, but he didn’t like that.”

 

No, of course he wouldn’t. He’s pretty sure Gale will never quite grasp the nuances of the Capitol citizens. Hell, it took Haymitch almost a decade before he realized that Capitol citizens were victims in their own way. Sure, they weren’t starving or destined to kill each other for sport, but they were slaves to the government. If the districts were just meat to be ground, then the Capitol citizens were the gears, turning at the whim of a cruel and vindictive man.

 

“Seriously, Prim,” Haymitch says. “Don’t worry about it. Effie’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.” If Haymitch isn’t doing his best to screw it up. He excuses himself and heads back to Command. Hopefully whatever Plutarch or Coin is going to drone on about will be enough to take his mind off the cravings.

 

But he’s not holding his breath.

 

He doesn’t see Effie much in the next few days, and she doesn’t speak to him at all. He probably deserves it. He sees her with Finnick fairly often, trying to cheer him up, take his mind off of Annie, take hers off of Peeta.

 

It’s been almost a week since Effie’s spoken to him – he’s holed up in his quarters, running over intel Plutarch’s gathered from the Capitol. They’ve been trying to devise a way to rescue Peeta and the others since they’ve arrived in Thirteen, but Haymitch is growing more desperate with every propaganda film he sees Peeta appear in. Katniss is falling apart.

 

There are papers strewn over the room, blueprints and Beeetee’s ideas, reconnaissance reports and images, and Haymitch has given up on trying to organize them. He hears a knock on his door, a familiar cadence, one he’s used to hearing during a train ride or in a penthouse.

 

“Come in,” he says.

 

Effie walks in, her uniform cut up and rearranged and somehow made to look much more appealing on her than on anyone else in District Thirteen. Still ridiculous, though.

 

“This place is a mess!” she cries.

 

The appalled tone of her voice brings back familiar memories and Haymitch leans back in his chair and smirks. “Hello to you too, sweetheart.”

 

“Really, Haymitch, your housekeeping skills are dreadful.” She sighs and begins cleaning up. It’s just like old times, and for a moment Haymitch has to remember they’re no longer in the Capitol sorting through deals with sponsors. Effie actually looks at ease, for once. Comfortable and content, like maybe she’s remembering the old times too.

 

“Do you miss it?” he asks, surprised he verbalized the question at all.

 

Effie looks surprised too. “Miss what?” she asks, but he thinks she knows.

 

“The Capitol, the… frivolity.”

 

“I don’t miss the Games,” Effie says sharply, turning away to gather more papers.

 

“That’s not what I asked.”

 

“Isn’t it, though?” She sits on the edge of his bed, graciously ignoring the dirty, untucked sheets. “I know what people here think of me, Haymitch. That they find me _insufferable_.” Her hands clench in her lap, and Haymitch thinks it’s incredible how expressive her face is (even when she’s upset, _especially_ when she’s upset) without all that makeup. “They hate me, but I don’t even know them. I don’t belong here; I don’t understand it – the people, the rules, the clothes.” She pulls at the gray jumpsuit she’s wearing. “The clothes are just awful.”

 

“What do you want me to say, Effie?” Haymitch replies. “I’m sorry? I’m sorry for kidnapping you from the Capitol and making you were ugly clothes?”

 

“No! Of course not, Haymitch,” she says. “I know you brought me here to help Katniss.”

 

“Sweetheart, I didn’t bring you here to help Katniss,” Haymitch tells her. “I brought you here to help you.” He leans forward in his chair. “Do you have any idea what would’ve happened to you if I left you behind?”

 

“Yes, I do,” she says. “I’m not as oblivious as you think I am. I know what happened to Cinna, and Portia, and-and the rest. I know it would’ve happened to me too. I just didn’t think it mattered.”

 

“Of course it matters, you think I want to leave you there to rot?”

 

“Yes-well, no, I don’t know. I just know the things you and Plutarch are doing, the things you never told me about, are more important than-than…”

 

“Than you?” Haymitch asks, not unkindly (but he is not a kind man).

 

Effie presses her lips together tightly, so tightly he can see the vibrant pink in them recede. She nods.

 

Haymitch sighs. He’s tired and sober and so, so unprepared for this conversation it’s laughable. In fact, he probably would be laughing if this had happened anywhere else; he’d be liquor-soaked and barely coherent. He misses those days more than he should.

 

“If my time spent with you has taught me anything,” Haymitch says. “It’s that nothing is more important than Effie Trinket and her schedules.” He smirks, sly and boyish and charming – the smirk that charmed half the Capitol during his interview before the Games. “Katniss needs you, Effie. And I guess I need you too.”

 

Effie smiles softly, and leans toward him. “Thank you, Haymitch,” she whispers, and kisses him on the corner of his mouth. Her lips are soft, and they linger for maybe a moment too long, just long enough that Haymitch thinks maybe he should kiss her too, that maybe he’s been wanting to kiss her for a few years now (he had always thought that was just the booze talking). But she pulls away before he can make up his mind, and her cheeks are pink and so are her lips and he really _does_ want to kiss her, only she walks away from him and to the door and out of his reach.

 

“You’ve never done that before,” he says.

 

“You’ve never been sober before,” she replies, before smirking (just like him) and leaving.

 

For the first time since he’s been here his mouth is no longer dry.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
